The Pit of Despair Raid
by Tirathon
Summary: When a simple mission goes badly wrong, the harsh, unforgiving desert becomes an enemy more merciless than any human foe.
1. Darkness, Cold, and Shadows

_While I'm trying to get un-writers-blocked on Eagle Hunt, a fan (I have fans?!) requested a story, any story. So, I'm posting my first Rat Patrol story. Unfortunately, my wonderful beta reader is mad busy right now, so this is coming to you un-betaed and unpolished (it might get a rewrite later). But at least it's almost completely written, so there won't be any multi-month delays.  
_

_ All the usual disclaimers about me neither owning nor claiming any rights to the Rat Patrol apply. My only sadness is that they didn't make more of it. Private Langert is all mine; if you borrow him, at least give him some time to warm up.  
_

* * *

The North African desert can be bitterly cold in the dark hours before dawn. Private Klaus Langert, walking his sentry rounds on the perimeter of a small but vital fuel depot, was chilled to the bone. He rubbed his hands together again and blew on them, trying vainly to restore feeling to his fingers. He thought constantly about his duty: to be alert for any attack by the British, or by the crazy American commandos that were in so many of the war stories he had heard in the two days he had been with this unit. This was his first time on watch for real, guarding against real enemies. There were no lights, of course, to avoid becoming a target for enemy aircraft, but how was he supposed to see anything in this darkness? The thin crescent of the moon was just beginning to edge above the ridge to the east of the depot, but its faint light was no help. And how as he supposed to defend the depot against the enemy with his fingers frozen and stiff? He could barely feel the rifle in his hands; how was he supposed to fire it? He stared suspiciously at the shadows, searching them for hidden enemies, trying to stay awake, and wishing for the hundredth time that he had worn the warm coat and gloves that were sitting uselessly in his kit bag. A cold pre-dawn wind was rising. Klaus looked out across the desert again. Was that a rock or an American commando sneaking about in the dark? He was so tired the shadows seemed to dart about, always moving on the edge of his vision. He rubbed his eyes and continued walking his post.

Across the depot from the shivering sentry, a shadow among shadows moved between the dark bulks of parked supply trucks. It froze when one of Klaus's fellow sentries turned at the end of his patrol, just in case the soldier watching for threats from the outside looked inward, then moved silently to the rear of the last truck in line. Another moment frozen in place, checking for any watchers, then the shadow slipped up the back of the truck and through the flap of the canvas.

Inside the truck, Sergeant Sam Troy looked at the luminous hands on his watch. Only ten minutes until false dawn. This was the last of the trucks that should be moving out at dawn, Troy thought with relief. Hitchcock should already be finished setting his share of the charges in the critical parts of the camp and be making his way back to where Tully and Moffitt waited with the jeeps. Troy climbed up on the fuel drums that made up the truck's load, crawling quietly to the middle. He carefully set the timer on the detonator attached to his last bundle of explosives and lowered it down between the drums. Even if they somehow knew it was there, the Germans would not easily get it out. Thirty minutes until this truck, and the precious fuel it was carrying to feed Rommel's tanks, would become a fireball outshining the pre-dawn light. Time to make his escape.

Moving absolutely silently across the steel fuel drums was a slow process. As Troy made his way, inch by careful inch, to the tailgate of the truck, he froze at the sound of voices. Voices speaking German, and far too close to him for comfort. If they looked into the truck he would be spotted. He flattened himself out on the fuel drums, trying to look like a pile of random gear or something, anything, except for a man. He loosened his pistol in its holster and waited. The voices continued, sounding like they were right outside the truck. He wished he had Moffitt along to tell him what they were saying.

Suddenly there were more sounds behind him: the slam of the truck's doors was followed by the rumble of its engine starting up. From along the line of trucks came similar sounds. All around him, the depot was waking up and the convoy was preparing to move out. The halftrack parked behind the truck roared to life. No chance of sneaking out now. He cursed silently. What could have gone wrong? They had spent three days observing the depot, waiting for it to be resupplied. The convoys had never rolled out before dawn. Driving across the desert in darkness, headlights shielded to avoid betraying a vehicle's presence to people such as himself, was too risky. For three mornings, the fuel convoy had loaded in the evening and moved out at first light. Except this morning. Except the morning he was trapped in the damned truck. The two voices behind the truck were joined by a third and a fourth. Just his luck, to have a whole Kraut conference going on behind the truck he was hiding in. He mentally cursed again, more fervently. He could cut his way through the canvas side of the truck, of course, but a gaping Troy-sized hole would make it obvious that someone had been in there. He stayed flat.

Orders shouted in German. More doors slamming. His truck lurching forward. The convoy was moving out, and Troy was still inside the truck. Paradoxically, he thought, he was safer. At least there would be nobody looking inside the truck now. Hitch would report where he was. All he had to do was wait until the truck was a few miles from the depot and the other three members of his patrol would give him the diversion he needed to escape. Troy tried to find a comfortable spot on the fuel drums as the truck jolted across the rough desert road. He was safe for a while, if "safe" was the proper word for riding in an enemy supply truck on top of a thousand gallons of fuel with an explosive charge timed to go off in -- he checked his watch again -- 24 minutes.


	2. Flames at Dawn

_I'm expecting to post chapters of **The Pit of Despair Raid** once or twice a week, but since the first one is so short, here's another one to keep Hubbles happy. Regrettably, it's still un-betaed and unpolished. All the usual disclaimers about me neither owning nor claiming any rights to the Rat Patrol apply. My only sadness is that they didn't make more of it. Private Langert is all mine; so's Oberleutnant Braun, but I'm not sure anyone would want him. _« » _indicate German dialog._

* * *

On the crest of the ridge along the east side of the depot, a swift, quiet form moved toward its goal, a parked jeep and the man guarding it. Very quietly, challenge and response were made. Hitchcock rejoined Tully by the jeeps.

"Sergeant Troy back yet?" Hitch asked.

"Nope." Tully shifted the matchstick to the other side of his mouth. "The Professor's up there, watching."

"I'll go see if I can spot the Sarge." Keeping his head down in case the faint moonlight and first traces of dawn were enough to silhouette him, Hitch scampered up the low rise and flattened himself on the ground next to Moffitt.

"Troy isn't with you?" Moffitt asked quietly.

"He had more charges to set than I did. He must have taken cover when the trucks started moving out."

"Then he should be along any moment," Moffitt said. "I hope."

The dim light of false dawn started to touch the sky. The men who had sent the trucks off were bank in their tents. The depot was quiet except for the occasional sound of canvas flapping in the rising wind. Walking his post at the perimter of the depot, the shivering Private Langert was a bundle of nerves. The shadows were moving, he knew it. That big one was moving, coming toward him. So was the other one to its rear. Yes, they were moving! Adrenaline flooded his veins. He was fully awake now, for the first time in hours. He aimed his rifle at the largest of the moving shadows and forced his stiff fingers to pull the trigger. Again. Again. The bullets blasted chunks off of the rock. He heard shouting back in the camp, and the sound of running feet. Three others of the guard detachment joined him, along with Oberleutnant Braun himself.

«What is it, soldier?» Braun asked.

«I saw something move. It must be the Americans,» the shaken private replied.

«So where are they?» Braun asked harshly. «I see no bodies out there.»

«I ... I don't know.»

«You don't know -- what?» Braun snapped.

«I don't know, SIR.» The sentry's voice rose almost to a squeak.

«You don't know because there were never any Americans out there.» Braun snatched Langert's rifle from his hands. «The Fatherland has no use for cowards who shoot at shadows.» He glared around. «Grossmann, you will finish out Private Langert's watch. Dressel, Weller, escort this fool to my tent. I will be there shortly to deal with him.» With a disgusted look, he stomped away. Langert's knees failed him. What was Braun going to do? Visions of court-martial or worse filled his head. The other two had to bodily haul him to the command tent and shove him inside.

"What's happening?" Hitch whispered when he heard the gunshots.

"Three shots. Far side of the depot, I saw the muzzle flashes." He kept his attention, and his binoculars, on the scene below. "Men running that way, I can't see how many. Damn this light." He watched for a while longer, seeing nothing. "They're coming back. Looks like they're carrying someone." Light blossomed as the flap of the command tent was opened. For a moment, Moffitt saw silhouetted two men half-dragging a third, saw them shove him roughly into the tent. A hard knot formed in his stomach.

"They have Troy," he said flatly.

"Is he hurt?"

"Not sure. Just got a glimpse of them putting him in one of the tents. Get Tully up here."

Hitchcock slithered back down the slope to the jeeps and quickly returned with the quiet private. Hitch kept close watch on the fuel depot while Moffitt filled Tully in on the situation.

"It appears that Sergeant Troy was spotted while he was leaving the camp. You heard the shots. He's alive, but captured."

"So how are we gonna get him out?" Tully asked, never once doubting that they would.

"We have just under twenty minutes until those charges blow. I want us in position before they do. It will be light enough to see by then, so this will be risky, and we'll only be able to use one jeep. One of us needs to infiltrate the camp. Logically that would be me, since you chaps don't speak German."

Moffitt brushed a patch of ground free of small stones and laid out several pebbles to represent the target area. It was barely visible in the faint moonlight.

"Here is the fuel storage, which is going to be a huge fireball very shortly. This stone is the radio bunker. These little ones flanking the north and south entrances are the machine gun nests. This stone here is the command tent, where I'll be going. I'll get to the tent and assess Troy's condition. When the explosions start, that's your cue to come in and sow some additional confusion and a few grenades. There may be guards in front of the command tent; watch out for them." He added another stone to represent a jeep and moved it from the north entrance to the command tent. "I'll be waiting to bring Troy out of the tent and get him in the jeep. I don't know what kind of shape he'll be in, so Tully, I want you on the fifty where you can lend a hand. Then we run for it and pick up the other jeep." He moved the jeep stone accordingly. "I don't expect they will be too interested in pursuing us. They'll have a lot more on their minds right about then."

"Let's do it, Sarge," Hitch said, ignoring Moffitt's wince at the title.

"Very good. You had better leave the second jeep by that hill to the north. That's far enough away that we will be able to tell if we are being followed."

With that, and a whispered "Good luck" from Hitch and Tully, Moffitt slipped off into the fading darkness, headed into the enemy camp. The other two ran for their jeeps and prepared for their part in the raid.

Following the route Troy had taken earlier, Moffitt moved from one bit of cover to another. Once he was within the guarded perimeter he could move a bit faster. Handy thing, the way guards looked out, not in. He checked his watch. Six minutes until the explosions. He ducked around a tent, clinging to the protective shadows, and came up behind the command tent. The rear flaps were tied shut. A quick flick of his knife solved that minor problem and, pistol in hand, he slipped inside.

In the dim light of the tent's lantern, he saw a figure hunched on a folding camp stool, his back to Moffitt. His eyes narrowed. That wasn't Troy. Not unless Troy had bleached his hair and joined the Afrika Korps. Two silent steps put him close to the other man, who was apparently absorbed in his own thoughts and oblivious to Moffitt's presence.

«Be silent,» Moffitt said in German, very quietly. The other man leaped to his feet, knocking over his stool, and spun around to stare wide-eyed at the intruder -- or, more precisely, at the gun in the intruder's hand. Wisely, Klaus Langert remained silent and kept his hands away from anything that might appear threatening.

«Where is the American?» Moffitt hissed.

«American? What American?» Klaus looked bewildered. «There was only a rock.»

«Rock?» Moffitt was starting to feel as confused as the German. «No, where is the American they brought in here?»

«There was no American. There was only a rock. I am to wait for Oberleutnant Braun, because I fired at a rock. He said there were no Americans here. But you are here.»

«I'm British,» Moffitt corrected rather testily. «You shot a rock?»

«Yes, and Oberleutnant Braun is going to send me to the Eastern front, or, or somewhere worse. Except you are going to kill me.» He was shaking. Moffitt took a good look at the man ... boy, rather. One of the replacements they had seen arriving here two days ago. Was he any older than 16?

«It was you they brought into this tent?»

«Yes.» His eyes were wide and frightened. Then he gathered himself together and stood straight and defiant. «I will die like a soldier for the Fatherland.»

«Turn around,» Moffitt ordered. Klaus glared at him and did not move. Moffitt sighed; the boy obviously expected to be shot in the back. «I'm not going to kill you,» he told the German. Shoulders back, bravado covering fear, the other turned. Moffitt's hand lashed out and Klaus dropped bonelessly to the floor.

Moffitt dragged the unconscious German to the back of the tent where he would be less obvious to someone coming in unexpectedly. Almost as an afterthought, he disarranged some of the papers on the field desk. They'd know he'd been here anyway, so he may as well add a bit of further confusion. He moved to the tent flap to await Tully and Hitch just as the first of the explosions rocked the depot.

Right on cue, Moffitt heard the chatter of the fifty-cal and a pair of grenade explosions. The cavalry, as Troy would say, were here. He looked out. The jeep came to a stop in front of the tent. Tully was on the fifty laying down suppressing fire, not that it was much needed. The Germans had plenty else to worry about. Moffitt leaped into the passenger's seat of the jeep.

"Go! Go!" he yelled to Hitch. The driver slammed the jeep into gear and swung it around to head back the way they'd come.

"Where's the Sarge?" he shouted back as he put the accelerator to the floor.

"Not here!"

The jeep tore back through the depot spitting jacketed lead. Moffitt had a Thompson in his hands and loosed a few rounds at any Germans who took too much of an interest in the escaping jeep. Some intrepid German opened up with the gun on a halftrack; fortunately, his aim was off. Tully's aim with a grenade was not. Moffitt felt the heat from the blazing fuel dump on his face, then on his back as they sped away. When they finally reached the freedom of the open desert, there was no pursuit. Hitch slowed to a safer speed.

"What happened?" he asked Moffitt.

"Wild goose chase. That wasn't Troy in the tent. Some green Jerry private getting written up for shooting at shadows."

"Then where's Troy?"

"I don't know."

Tully looked down from his position in the back. "Sarge, since he didn't make it to the rendezvous and he wasn't in the camp, there's only one place he coulda been."

Moffitt felt the cold knot return to his stomach. Tully was right. There was only one place Troy could have been that would have kept him from rejoining the others.

"The trucks," Moffitt said.

"The trucks that just blew up."

"He could still be alive. He could have gotten out anywhere along the road," Hitchcock said, as if expecting someone to disagree.

"We'll find him," Moffitt said firmly. "Hitchcock, you take the other jeep. We'll parallel the road, get to wherever that convoy is as fast as we can. You follow us, take it slower, and look for Troy if he's out there. We'll keep looking until we find him."


	3. Opposite Certainties

_Moving right along, another chapter for the weekend. It's still un-betaed and unpolished, a condition I hope to correct in the future. All the usual disclaimers about me neither owning nor claiming any rights to the Rat Patrol apply. Leutnant Adler and Fritz Muller are mine; so's Oberleutnant Braun, but I'm getting fairly certain that nobody would want him. « » indicate German dialog._

* * *

The worst of the sandstorm had passed. Two heads, one wearing a black beret, the other a red kepi, peered cautiously over the crest of a rock-studded rise overlooking the smoldering remains of the German convoy.

"I don't see him," Moffitt reported as he studied the scene through binoculars. "No sign of any prisoners. Looks like they have two dead, five wounded, but none of them is Troy."

"What if he never got out of the truck?" Hitchcock asked.

"We'd see him," Moffitt said grimly.

"Let me have a look."

Moffitt passed over the binoculars and Hitchcock scanned the activity around the wreckage.

"Hey, that's not Dietrich!"

"What?"

"The guy in charge. He's not Dietrich." He handed the binoculars back to Moffitt, who took a long look.

"So he isn't. The chap giving orders is wearing Leutnant's insignia. I would guess that is the good captain's second in command."

"So where's Dietrich?"

"No sign of him." He swept the binoculars over the scene again. "Things seem to be in rather good order down there, though. Hmm, wait, there is something else missing: Dietrich's command car."

"You think Troy took it?"

Moffitt shook his head. "If he had, he would have met us at the rendezvous point. He must have been captured, and already on his way to wherever they're taking him." He watched the Germans a while longer. "Nothing more we can learn here." Moffitt slithered back down the slope a couple of yards and rolled to his feet. Hitchcock followed and they returned to the jeeps.

"Find him?" Tully asked. Moffitt shook his head.

"Looks like Dietrich's got the Sarge," Hitchcock said. "They're both gone and so's Dietrich's car."

"Where?"

"The sandstorm will have covered their tracks," Moffitt said. He unfolded a map on the hood of the jeep.

"There's the fuel depot." He indicated a spot on the map. "Here is the road the convoy was following. That would put us right at this point. We know they didn't go back to the depot. That fuel was going to supply a panzer unit somewhere on the other side of those hills. No sense for them to take Troy there."

Tully shifted his matchstick to the other side of his mouth.

"Only one major Kraut base within fifty miles," he said.

Moffitt nodded and tapped the map. "Ain Balah oasis. That's where they're going."

Leutnant Adler had to restrain himself from pacing like a caged lion. It would only make the men struggling to repair the disabled halftrack nervous, which would not improve their efficiency. Nor would it help the medic treating the wounded. Most important, though, it would not make his missing commanding officer reappear out of thin air. He forced himself to stand casually, looking down the road toward the fuel depot they had pulled out of less than half an hour before, watching for the assistance he hoped would be coming. The sandstorm had died down, the worst of it passing south of them; the depot had to be sending someone soon. He wiped at the soot on his face, but that only served to move it around and mix in some of the blood still oozing from the cut above his left eyebrow. He wasn't even sure when he'd gotten that, or how.

He heard the buzz of a motorcycle engine coming up the other road; the surviving scout was returning. He waited a few moments before turning, trying to emulate his missing superior's composure. The motorcycle scout, however, had no such qualms.

«Herr Leutnant!» the scout called from behind him. «Herr Leutnant!» Adler turned around to see the scout helping a man in Afrikakorps tan out of the sidecar.

«Yes, Corporal, what have you found out?»

«It's Private Muller, sir. Hauptmann Dietrich's new driver. We found him on the road.»

«Alone?» Adler's eyes narrowed.

«Yes, Herr Leutnant. No sign of Hauptmann Dietrich or the American.»

«Get him some water.» He frowned. «Assuming we have any water the American did not blow up. Get him in the shade. Then I will talk to him.»

Muller. Fritz Muller. Private. Conscript. As green as they came. He had been with the unit only two days, and scared out of his wits the whole time. Adler suspected the Hauptmann had picked him as his driver to give the boy some confidence. Either that, or because the nervous recruit was safer with a car than with a gun. Adler sighed and strode over to the patch of shade where the wounded had been moved, where the medic was giving Muller some water.

«Do not drink so quickly,» the medic was telling Muller as Adler approached. He took in the sight of Adler's soot-covered, blood-smeared face. «Herr Leutnant, you are hurt.»

«It is nothing. You have others to tend to. I need to speak to this man, if we could have some privacy.»

«Jawohl,» the medic said. He returned to the row of wounded men awaiting his further attention.

«It is good to see you safe, Fritz,» Adler said. «Tell me what happened on the road, everything you can remember.»

«Herr Leutnant ... the American ... he came out of nowhere. There was the sandstorm, and the Hauptmann told me to drive back to check on the last trucks, to make sure they were keeping up with the convoy. Then the American was in the car. They were fighting, the American and Hauptmann Dietrich.» The words tumbled out of him.

«Where were you when the American appeared?» Adler asked calmly.

«Passing one of the trucks. The last one, I think. Yes, I remember seeing the halftrack after it.»

Adler kept his anger from reaching his face. The American commando had been hiding in the truck. Someone had been lax on checking the vehicles before they moved out. Hauptmann Dietrich would have his hide. That was, unless they couldn't find Dietrich. If not, then Adler would personally make that fool wish he had never been born. Six trucks, a halftrack, and a motorcycle lost; two men dead, several more out of the war for months if not permanently; General Rommel's precious fuel in flames. All thanks to one American. One American, and one slacker.

«Go on,» he told Muller, who had paused waiting for a response. «You are doing fine.» Fine except for somehow misplacing his commanding officer.

«The American and Hauptmann Dietrich, they were fighting. Then there was an explosion, many explosions. The trucks started blowing up. So I drove away from the explosions. Uphill, at first. Then the American hit me, and he picked me up and threw me out of the kubelwagen. When I got up they were gone and all I could see was the blowing sand. So I started walking, and then I heard the motorcycle.»

«How long did you walk?» No use asking him how far he drove, or how long he spent hugging the sand; Adler could already tell he didn't know.

«Maybe ten minutes.» Ten minutes, at most half a kilometer. Probably less in the sandstorm.

«What was Hauptmann Dietrich doing when the American hit you?»

«Nothing, Herr Leutnant. He was not moving.»

Inwardly, Adler cursed the American, all Americans, the British, the slacker at the depot who had not checked the trucks, the OKW who sent these fools to the front, this idiot boy for doing nothing but driving like a scared rabbit while the American was hijacking the kubelwagen, and his own damned luck to be in the middle of this. Outwardly he kept his composure.

«Thank you, Private Muller. You have done well. When the medic is through with you, there is plenty of work here for all of us.» Adler returned Muller's salute and strode away to wait for the group from the depot.

It was another half hour before the sentries spotted incoming vehicles. By then the disabled halftrack was functional again, though he would not want to run it over half speed. Adler went to meet the incoming vehicles. To his surprise, Oberleutnant Braun had come personally. Even more surprising was the fact that his pants were ripped and his left arm was in a sling, which was possibly the only clean part of the usually spit-and-polish officer.

«They attacked the fuel depot too,» Braun informed Adler before the latter could ask. «Fuel storage, radio bunker, supply tent. And they were in the command tent for something. That idiot recruit who was shooting at shadows was in there waiting for me; they knocked him cold. We don't know what they were looking for, or whether they got it.»

«One of them was in the trucks. He has disappeared, and it would appear that he has taken Hauptmann Dietrich with him.»

Braun swore.

«I have a motorcycle scout out checking along the road,» Adler added.

«That is a waste of time,» Braun said. «If these American commandos have taken the Hauptmann, they will be headed directly for their own lines. If they have somehow mislaid him,» as you did, Braun implied, «they will have already found him again, or he would have returned here by now.»

«I disagree. He could have become lost in the sandstorm, or could be lying injured somewhere.»

«You are wrong, Leutnant Adler,» Braun said. «The Americans would have found him. They are not fools, and they would not pass up an opportunity to bring in one of our officers for interrogation. And they will do so as quickly as possible.»

«So where do you think they are?» Adler asked.

Braun tried to unfold a map one-handed. It fluttered in the fitful wind lingering from the sandstorm. Adler held it down.

«The terrain east of here is very rough, even for their jeeps. They can only take one of these three routes if they intend to travel with any speed.» His finger traced three lines on the map. «The northern one is close to Ain Balah; they are unlikely to take that, but I shall arrange for an observation plane to make sure. The southern is the longest, and I know that there is a reconnaissance unit in the area; they will unquestionably be caught if they go that way. No, they must be going here.» He pointed to the map. «And that, Leutnant Adler, is where you will go.»


End file.
